


Ancient Dick Pics of Cybertron

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-09 20:44:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5554715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All praise unto Primus, Who has bestowed phallic equipment upon Cybertron once more.  </p><p>The Constructicons react appropriately to this blessing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_All praise unto Primus, Who has bestowed phallic equipment upon Cybertron once more. The Constructicons react appropriately to this blessing._

**Title:** Ancient Dick Pics of Cybertron  
 **Warning:** Reference to rape. Sexual silliness. Breeding. Religion. The Constructicons’ dildo collection.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Constructicons, Stunticons.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** There was a prompt about stud-mechs being rare and highly desired, and I had this idea that wouldn’t go away.

**[* * * * *]**

**Part 1**

**[* * * * *]**

It was supposed to be a routine check of the newbies, just making sure they were running normal. Vector Sigma didn’t remake Earth cars into Decepticons every day, after all. The abnormal surge of energy drawn from -- myth said, and tracing of the power cords ended in finding no source whatsoever, so what myth said was their best guess -- Primus’ AllSpark had turned Earth alloys into Cybertonium, shifted internal parts around into transformation points, and done several other impossible things nobody had the slightest clue how to explain. Everyone’s understanding of what had happened boiled down to hand-wavy religious stuff. Megatron demanded, Primus answered, Vector Sigma obliged, and end result: Stunticons. 

Crazy cars they might be, but they were mechs. Newbie Decepticon miracle mechs, Earth cars turned into warriors. The Constructicons were utterly baffled and more than a little alarmed that Megatron’s demand had actually resulted in something. At best, they’d been hoping the boss would be happy with car drones. They’d honestly expected Vector Sigma to fail. Sticking a spark into a car didn’t result in a person; it resulted in a dead spark and a car with a big burn mark. Possibly an exploded car. Either way, the Constructicons had been discreetly preparing drone processors to put in the cars after Megatron finished screaming at one of their planet’s oldest, most venerated holy objects for not bending to his will.

Bend it had, however. Now the Constructicons had a handful of drone processors ready for their next project, which they’d get to after they gave the rookies a check-up.

“Third request to renovate the chapel with more seating,” Long Haul reported as he came into the medbay, and Scrapper winced. Right. The project _after_ that, then. 

The lovely speedster he was examining turned a bland gaze on him. “Are we required to attend religious services?”

“Not exactly.” Scrapper used his hardest voice, hoping to discourage questions. He wasn’t about to explain that Dead End’s mere existence had reignited faith in a big way among the Decepticons. The undersea base’s chapel hadn’t seen so much use since, well, ever. It’d been a glorified closet up until last week. Now everybody knew Primus had His optics on them, and prayer had become a daily ritual.

Dead End sighed and turned his mask toward the wall with all the drama of a mech taking his last vent. “Fine. Execution for AWOL would be a quicker death than rusting offline from the damp of my quarters, I suppose.”

“Mm-hm. Do you have a problem with rust?”

“No, but I will. It’s inevitable.”

Scrapper blinked at the gloomy answer. “I…see.” Lovely, but about as much fun as Dirge. He made a note for Mixmaster to set those two up on a blind date. It’d been a while since his gestaltmate meddled with the chemistry between people instead of in the lab, and the base could use some matchmaking. A good frag might loosen Dead End up a bit.

“What do you mean ‘itchy’?” Hook demanded from three repairberths over. 

“I mean it itches!” The twitchy one was as pretty as his gestaltmate but twice as glitched. The Constructicons still took his gesture as an invitation to stare at his crotch with a great deal of interest. Glitchy or not, he had a nice shiny crotch. Breakdown immediately covered it with both hands and scowled. “Stop looking!”

“You’re here for me to look at,” Hook pointed out reasonably enough. His smirk was 100% sadism. 

“Not like that!”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to dissect me!” Breakdown’s knees drew up slightly toward his chest as the Constructicons continued to devour him with their gazes. Dissection was the last thing on their filthy, filthy minds. “You don’t all have to look at me!”

No, but it made for wonderful entertainment. They relented when the whining hit a certain pitch. Also because they did have jobs to do, tempting as it was to drop everything and drool over the polished plating on the newbies. Primus had good taste in miracles. They were a _pretty_ bunch of shinies. 

Scrapper eventually turned back to clinically prodding the death-obsessed Stunticon while Hook scraped up a molecule of professionalism in order to reassure Breakdown that they weren’t out to get him. Much. Today.

“ -- and I still need to know what you mean by ‘itchy,’” he said over Breakdown’s panicked hyperventilating. “If you’ve already got an infection in your valve, I won’t be surprised. I’ve treated worse.”

“Not my valve.” For some reason, Breakdown curled even further into a defensive ball on the berth.

Hook looked skeptical, so Dead End heaved another of those overly dramatic sighs and explained, “Breakdown doesn’t enjoy interfacing with his valve. One can’t blame him, considering Motormaster’s size. Someday he’ll split us all in two, one by one, and wonder why our corpses won’t combine into Menasor.”

Hook and Scrapper gave him identical looks. How unexpectedly morbid. Maybe they should sign him up for antidepressants. Mixmaster could always use an excuse to tamper with people’s emotional subroutines via chemicals. 

“I can’t believe I’m going to have to schedule anger management counseling for one of you already,” Scrapper said after a moment. He made another note, shaking his head at the idiot newbuilds. They’d have to get the whole combiner team in here to talk to if Motormaster had gone so far as intentionally using interfacing as a punishment. If it was just him fisting his subordinates as an extraordinarily stupid means of discipline, not knowing any better, then they were on their own. Scrapper wasn’t touching that with a pole. He’d sit Motormaster down and talk to him about acceptable methods of beating on fellow Decepticons, and that would be the end of it.

Hook, assuming the itching was from a badly healed valve, tried to make Breakdown lie flat and spread his legs. Breakdown thrashed protest as the surgeon lectured, “Sticking your fist up someone’s valve is not an acceptable disciplinary measure. Take a memo on this: if Lord Megatron won’t do it to Starscream, then we’re not allowed to do it to each other. Got that?”

Dead End sat up, for once showing something other than apathy. He looked faintly ill. “Why would he use his fist? Please don’t suggest such a thing.” 

“Oh, gross,” Long Haul said from behind Scrapper somewhere. “What the slagging Pit has he been clanging you with?”

“I didn’t make ‘em any dildos!” Bonecrusher called from the supply closet. He seemed to be taking inventory. “Nobody’s checked out any of the Devastators, either.” While the Decepticons on Earth could and probably did improvise interfacing aids from found Earth objects, most of the marginally intelligent ones bought custom dildos from the Constructicons. The medbay kept a decent selection of rentals, too. The extra-large ones well beyond the Stunticons’ design specs were popular, but Bonecrusher stuck his head out of the closet to shrug at the team. “Nobody would loan theirs to the new guys, so where’d Motormaster get his?”

“His d-dildo?” Breakdown said, tripping oddly over the new word. 

Scrapper looked up, meeting Hook’s visor in a moment of perfect understanding. Primus take the wheel. Teaching sex education wasn’t anywhere in their job description.

“Not it!” Long Haul shouted, and five voices echoed him in an instant.

“…frag me,” Hook muttered. The gestalt bond didn’t lie. He’d come in last. Breakdown and Dead End just looked alarmed by the Constructicons’ random shouted denial of Motormaster’s dildo.

He growled his engine in supreme displeasure, then drew in a bracing vent. “Right. Fine. Listen up, you two.” He pointed a stern finger at the two Stunticons. “The hole between your legs is called a valve. It’s empty unless you put things up it, either by yourself or with the help of someone else. More than one someone else, if you’re lucky. Putting things up it isn’t supposed to hurt unless you’re into that, in which case don’t come crying to me because I won’t fix you for damaging yourself on purpose. If someone else puts something in you and you don’t enjoy it, stop them immediately. If they don’t stop, call for help. If we don’t kill them first, wait until they’re recharging and do it yourself. It counts as Justifiable Revenge under several clauses of the Decepticon Code, and you can call in anything up to and including a platoon of friends plus Starscream, although you’ll probably have to tell your side of the story to Lord Megatron in person for getting Starscream involved.”

“It’s just a formality,” Scrapper assured them. “He prefers to know why Starscream’s plotting murder from week to week.” He didn’t mention that Megatron got weirdly jealous whenever Starscream assassinated other people.

“Anyway,” Hook said, “valve feels good equals good, well done, repeat until overload. Valve feels bad equals stop, perhaps kill. Got it?”

Shellshocked by the Hook School of Sex Ed, his two unfortunate students blinked a few times. “Okay?”

“But what about the dildo?” Breakdown ventured. 

Hook looked at him like he’d blown some vital breakers somewhere in his brain module. “It’s a dildo. Rub it around, lube it up, thrust it in, repeat. Don’t try riding one that’s out of your size range.”

“Motormaster’s scheduled for a talk,” Scrapper said, resigned. “He won’t do that to you again, even if I have to get Lord Megatron to make it a direct order.” He shouldn’t. Most Decepticons knew their limits, and abusive interfacing was a hard limit for the whole faction. It was either enthusiastic consent or no nookie ever again. The rumor mill was brutal like that.

“He likes it a lot, though,” Breakdown whispered timidly. He curled on the berth, twisting against Hook’s hands. “His dildo hurts us, but it feels good for him.”

“I’m telling you, nobody’s checked ‘em out,” Bonecrusher repeated when his gestaltmates glanced his way. Scrapper and Hook exchanged disturbed looks. The double-ended dildos were the most popular of all their collection, but they’d have noticed if the bigger ones rented out to one of the rookies. 

“It does feel good,” Dead End said suddenly. He kept his visor turned studiously away from Breakdown’s wide, betrayed optics. “Wildrider and I tried it how he, ah, instructed,” he nodded to Hook, “and it felt good.” He hesitated and looked straight at Scrapper. “I would be interested in any methods of delayed gratification for the dildo side of interfacing. I did not last as long as Wildrider wished. I substituted my fingers after I finished, but the lack of stamina irritated us both at the time.”

“You stuck it up **Wildrider**?!” Breakdown almost shrieked.

Scrapper shook his head. A prude among Decepticons? Breakdown wasn’t going to last long down here. “It’s not that hard. Just start on his valve first before putting the other end in yours,” he explained. 

“Where the frag did **you** get a double-ender?” Bonecrusher demanded. He sounded exasperated by now. 

Dead End hesitated. “I…don’t understand. Is it removable?”

Distracted, Breakdown asked, “Is that why it itches? I’m supposed to take it out? How do I do that?”

The Constructicons stared at them. The silence wasn’t Scrapper’s idea. It was just that every time he started to say something, another thing wrong with what the Stunticons had said popped into the forefront of his mind, and the words abandoned him. He just -- and they --

The conversation did a dizzying dance of hypothetical rearrangement in his head. Possibilities whizzed by up, down, sideways, and in reverse. It went against all known science, but the Stunticons’ very existence already did that. They were miracles of Primus. He -- and they -- but that wasn’t -- they couldn’t --

Hook, bless his arrogant self-assurance, decided he’d obviously heard them wrong. Or they were delusional. Either way, he slapped his hand down on the repairberth and glared at Breakdown with all the annoyance of a pissed-off surgeon in home territory. “Stop being an idiot and just show me where you’re itching.”

Breakdown flinched. Swallowing nervously, he sent a pleading look toward Dead End. Dead End shrugged. No help would be coming from him. He possessed nothing but the depressed resignation of the fatally inclined. 

They really needed to get that mech on something soon. 

Shutting off his optics, Breakdown laid flat and opened his crotch plating.

The whole thing. Not just the heavy-duty armor protecting his valve opening and all the sensitive circuitry nested around it in an complicated array of one of a Cybertronian’s most vulnerable, beloved pieces of equipment, but the front piece that functioned as a protective crumple zone in front of the valve. Every other Decepticon on Earth -- every Decepticon on _Cybertron_ \-- as well as every Autobot Scrapper had ever examined had that empty area. Instead of blank plating, however, the front of Breakdown’s pelvis span opened up, and under it was a --

It housed a --

Oh _wow_ …

“Stop staring at me,” Breakdown said, but none of the Constructicons heard him. They were too busy gaping at an exposed hydraulic system the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the Functionalist Era. Before then. Long before then. There was graffiti down in the lowest levels archeologists insisted pointed to proof of its existence. The Functionalists had erased the archeologists’ reports, destroyed their proof, and denied any rumor of the myth, the legend, the --

“Stop it,” Breakdown said again, and Hook’s visor went from wide to painfully rounded as the hydraulics began to _move_. It was amazing. It was incredible. They pumped, slow but gradually gaining speed, and a hardened length began to emerge from a protective sheath underneath the main piston housings. “Stop looking! You’re making it itch more!”

“Breakdown…” Dead End dragged a hand down his face as Breakdown squirmed uncomfortably. “It’s supposed to do that. That’s normal. Once you release your plating, the…dildo comes out and you can use it. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“It itches!”

“Then maybe you should scratch it,” Dead End suggested dryly. “It worked for me.” 

“I don’t want to! Make it go away!”

“No!” Scrapper blurted, and half his team had lurched forward in horror at the very idea. Blasphemy! How dare anyone make this precious miracle of Vector Sigma, proof of Primus’ blessing upon their entire species, go anywhere but right where it belonged?

In them. 

Religious iconography had just taken on a whole new meaning. They were going to have to put a _lot_ more seats in the chapel after this. A berth would work quite well as a new altar. Bunk beds for crowded worship services. 

*Scrapper,* Hook said through the team frequency. His visor never left Breakdown, and he sounded strangely breathless. *Scrapper, how much energon do we have on hand?*

*Not enough,* he said back the same way.

*Enough!* Long Haul and Bonecrusher said. *Do it!*

Scrapper narrowed his visor at them, although it was difficult to look away as Breakdown’s hand hesitantly moved toward the erection commanding the Constructicons’ attention. *We don’t have enough to try, so don’t even think about it.*

*Scrapper, we’re talking about a revival of Cybertronian biomechanics. Inherited spark traits. Metal memory recorded by spark ignition.* Hook leaned forward over Breakdown as if magnetically attracted to the motion of the hydraulics. Visor wide and mouth parted in total fascination, he looked ready to lunge down and bury his face in the Stunticon’s crotch. *If even a fraction of legend is true, we could generate sparks compatible with our frametypes. **Mingled** frametypes. Hybrids! And **minds** , oh, imagine it, imagine crossbreeding for improved processing power. Oh. Oh, Scrapper, do you realize what this means? We could ignite a new generation based on ourselves!*

Forget a face full of new equipment. Hook trembled on the verge of mounting the Stunticon for science.

Venting hard, fans on high, he grabbed the edge of the berth and kneaded it in his hands, reaching for self-control. Scrapper couldn’t wedge a word into the excited torrent of, *Get me as much energon as we have. All we need is a little more! I’m fully fueled, this will work. This **will** work. Get him in my valve, get his spark against mine, and -- and -- *

*You don’t even know how it works!* Scrapper broke in finally. *For all you know, he has to be on top. And for all we know, hosting a new spark could kill you! We don’t know anything! Do you know how to transfer it from your spark chamber? And into what? We don’t have any bodies built, and fragging Pit, Hook! We don’t even know how long you’d have to host the thing. If you’re even the one who carries it. Which we don’t know if you could even if you managed to -- to light one.* Oh, Primus, the lack of information made _talking_ about it difficult. What was the correct terminology?!

“Why won’t you stop looking at me?” Breakdown squeaked, but Dead End’s dull irritation was effective peer pressure. Despite the Constructicons’ staring, his hand closed around the stiff length poking up from his pelvis. 

Mixmaster moaned. Scavenger let out a small whimper. Bonecrusher was fumbling around in the supply closet looking for a similar dildo, if the crashing over there any indication, and Scrapper didn’t blame him in the least. The whole team was feeling an intense need for some private time just watching this. The Stunticon pumped his hand, and Scrapper’s knees went a little weak. 

“Try twisting your hand at the tip,” Dead End advised his gestaltmate.

“Ow!”

“Don’t actually twist it, dolt.”

*But don’t you see?* Hook said in that soft, breathless voice. *If we don’t do it now, Megatron will take them for himself. He’ll use them to breed his chosen strains. Breed supersoldiers. A thousand copies of approved biomechanical spark signatures ignited at his command only, and the rest of us won’t ever get a chance. We’re the repair mechs, remember? We get last dibs on everything.*

*But maybe, if we do it now…* He swallowed as he watched Breakdown’s hand pump, gliding over shiny new equipment while the Stunticon grunted, bucking into the tight grip according to Dead End’s instructions. *Rumor or not, everything I’ve **ever** heard said it’s supposed to ignite sparks with inherited traits. Both contributors influence body and mind. If we take this opportunity, maybe we’ll make a new gestalt.* Visor shining, he tore his gaze away to give Scrapper a desperate, longing look. *Imagine what Megatron will do then, Scrapper!*

Scrapper couldn’t help but imagine it. And he couldn’t help but glance toward Dead End’s lovely crotch. 

This was a bad idea of terrible proportions, but they were Constructicons. First and foremost, they built. The mere idea of building more of themselves, of improving, of turning themselves into blueprints for the next generation…it hit so many buttons. Scrapper’s valve primed from _0_ to _Ready-Steady-Go!_ in five seconds flat.

*Get as much energon as we have on hand, and lock the medbay doors,* he ordered. Bonecrusher and Long Haul practically fell over themselves running to obey. *Mixmaster, you’re best at this. He likes waxing, mirrors, and talking about his eventual death. Seduce away.* Mixmaster scrambled toward them.

Hook vibrated in place, expression eager but vaguely horrified because he was not the best at this. He was, statistically speaking, the worst at talking mechs into his berth. *Scavenger…*

“Soooooo,” Scavenger said as he slid into place beside the surgeon. “How do you feel about blindfolds, Breakdown?”

Breakdown froze, looking as though he felt not good at all. His hand squeezed, however, and hard metal stiffened somehow harder. “I…uh…”

This was a horrible idea. “I have one. I’ll be right back,” Scrapper said.

As he jogged into the back room to open his personal collection of interfacing aids, he prayed. Why not? Primus seemed to be in the listening mood, lately. Maybe they’d get lucky.

Mixmaster made a sound from up front. Dead End groaned. Lust and intense pleasure flooded the gestalt link, and Scrapper swore his optical sensors crossed behind his visor as his knees turned in, valve clenching between his legs in echoed reflex. Oh. Oh, if that was what the real thing felt like inside them, it didn’t matter how much energon they had on hand. None of the Constructicons were leaving until they’d had a turn.

Scrapper modified his prayer. It seemed they’d already gotten lucky.

**[* * * * *]**


	2. Pt. 2

_All praise unto Primus, Who has bestowed phallic equipment upon Cybertron once more. The Constructicons react appropriately to this blessing._

**Title:** Ancient Dick Pics of Cybertron  
 **Warning:** Reference to rape. Sexual silliness. Breeding. Religion. Decepticons attempting to adjust to dicks.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Constructicons, Stunticons.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** The continuation that…someone sort of asked for. Voter incentive fic from Massachusetts: "Rarepair of your choice in a post-interface situation and they can’t stop giggling over something unexpected/just plain silly that happened during their intimacy.”

**[* * * * *]**

**Part 2**

**[* * * * *]**

Whatever else the Constructicons discovered today, they’d learned Primus had a sense of humor.

Shock rendered Scrapper temporarily speechless. Hook's expression of dumbfounded affront was matched by Dead End's embarrassment. Mixmaster had never laughed so hard. Breakdown sputtered like an engine on a cold morning, unable to see through the blindfold but able to hear the laughter just fine. Scavenger still held the Stunticon down, but he stood over him torn between absolute hilarity and horror.

"What...the frag," Bonecrusher said. In crude terms, it was a perfectly reasonable summary of the situation. 

"Frag?" Long Haul asked, because A. what the Pit had just happened, and B. no, seriously, had that been a frag? Interfacing, he meant. Had that been interfacing, really?

Bonecrusher nodded. "Frag."

And Long Haul had to agree. "Yeah, frag." 

Thus demonstrating the versatility of the word, as nobody had any problem following the conversation. Translated into a wider vocabulary, it became, _’My dear fellow Constructicons, what total insanity have we committed ourselves to? For lo and behold, none among us recognize a single moment of what just happened as any sort of interfacing we possess knowledge of. Is this a new form of interfacing henceforth unknown to Cybertron, or have we merely rediscovered an extinct form of masturbation and/or sex?’_

All rather more pretentious than anything Long Haul or Bonecrusher would say out loud, but the Constructicons shared a common thread of curiosity. They always wanted to know how a device worked and what made it function, even if half of them used that knowledge to destroy instead of build. Bonecrusher and Long Haul both stared at Dead End with the fascinated expressions of new students. _’We require further education on this strange form of sexual intimacy.’_

"I **said** I didn't last as long as I’d like," Dead End muttered. He kept his visor trained on the ceiling, hands clenched into fists at his side. Bonecrusher and Long Haul gawping at him was almost as humiliating as Mixmaster braying laughter. He evidently thought they were mocking his lack of stamina.

He couldn’t have been more wrong. Scrapper couldn't take his visor off the unknown fluids dribbling down the inside of Mixmaster's thighs. There was plenty of it staining Dead Ends pelvic span as well, and Scrapper didn’t understand. It didn’t add up. One second, Mixmaster had been on the best ride of his life. The next -- splooge. He’d lifted off Dead End to adjust their positions, and suddenly the Stunticon arched and shuddered. Founts of liquid had spurted from the tip of Dead End’s equipment in quick, jerking pulses. He’d groaned as it splashed against Mixmaster’s valve and splattered wetly onto the repair berth. 

Now Mixmaster sat back on his heels still straddling him, and the mess stood out on them like an oil spill. A healthy, pink oil spill? Uh, no, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t oil, and it definitely wasn’t lubricant. What was that fluid, and where had it come from? And _why?_ What was the point of ejaculation? Was it necessary to the sparking process somehow?

"Is that normal?" Scrapper demanded in a strained voice.

"Why are you asking **me**?” Dead End asked, which was a reasonable question for a mech to ask of his supposed medic. _’Don’t you know?’_ asked loud and skeptical in the subtext.

The Constructicon leader suffered a short coughing fit, mumbling a few _’part of the job’_ and _’patient confirmation is important’_ excuses without committing to anything. He busied himself making notations on Dead End’s patient chart. The notes weren’t all made up. He did have Dead End’s medical file open on a tablet for updating, but he’d forgotten about it in the fuss. 

Pulling together his scattered professionalism, Scrapper reset his vocalizer and poised his hand over the input box. “Right. I need you to state for the record that, ah, **that** ,” he gestured at the mess on Dead End’s lap and Mixmaster’s thighs, “is normal in your experience.”

”I told you it was." Dead End failed to be impressed by Scrapper's listening skills. 

Scrapper hesitated, feeling a fool, but he had to ask to make sure. “Was that…did you overload?”

Glacial slow, Dead End turned his head to give the Constructicon leader a thoroughly deadpan look. Yeah, he was really beginning to doubt these guys ran the medbay. The other Decepticons were probably pranking his team, telling them the Constructicons did repairs. “What do you think?”

“I think you should answer the question!” Hook snapped, slamming his fist down beside Dead End’s hip. The Stunticon looked appropriately cowed by Hook’s glare. The surgeon _looked_ sixteen flavors of offended sensibilities. Primus was playing him for a fool, and he did _not_ appreciate it. 

However, Hook clicked onto the Constructicons’ private comm. channel sounding awed and amazed by the miracle he’d witnessed. *That did seem to signify overload. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it appears a dildo functions much the same as a valve in terms of overload via direct stimulation.* 

Perhaps not a revolutionary idea to some species, but Cybertron had known nothing but valve-only interfacing for so long that Hook’s observation was astounding. A shocking upset of the status quo. Dead End had mentioned he enjoyed using his phallic equipment, but the Constructicons hadn’t thought about it beyond some vicarious pleasure. The usual role of a dildo in a frag was pretty enjoyable, too. Most people enjoyed pleasuring their partner. But overload? Everyone knew fingers and mouths made interfacing a happy time, but nobody, no matter how much they enjoyed going down on their partner, overloaded via their fingers or mouths!

So the Stunticons brand new interfacing equipment was not only compatible and _very_ pleasurable for a valve, as Mixmaster had proven, but it could overload. _Dildos could overload._ Without a valve. Overload…without a valve? Whoa. The Constructicons had made the mistaken assumption that dildos and valves were locks and keys. Locks could be opened using many means, but a key only worked paired with a lock. 

Now they scrambled to revise their opinion. Dildos didn’t need valves. Dildos worked independently. The Constructicons had plugged in a power tool in only to discover it had a mind of its own and didn’t come with a convenient On/Off switch so they could use and discard it at will. If the Stunticons didn’t need anything but their own hands to get off, it made interfacing the shiny glitches exactly as give-and-take as fragging a regular valve-only mech. They weren’t just stud-mechs sent by Primus Himself to spark up lucky buildmechs. 

"The frag?" Bonecrusher repeated as though a full instruction manual would appear painted on the Stunticons’ shiny afts if he kept demanding it. Valves weren’t the only thing between people’s legs any more, and he didn’t know how to operate the new equipment in front of him. He knew how to please a valve. Slag him if he knew how to keep a dildo erect. He waved a hand at the sticky puddles and Dead End’s spent dildo, giving the rest of the Constructicons a helpless look pleading for them to take over and get him away from potentially fragile equipment. His specialty was breaking things! Why was _he_ the one standing next to the phallic phenomenon? Help him before he screwed this up for everyone! 

Unfortunately, none of the others knew what to do, either. Primus might have answered their prayers, but His sense of humor left something to be desired. Scrapper had lapsed back into astonished silence. Mixmaster had finally stopped laughing long enough to process _Fluid = dildo overload discharge_ and was now staring down at his own lower half as if afraid the dripping liquid would disappear any second now. Mind blown, Long Haul gazed at Dead End’s groin like a mech counting his blessings. He looked scared he might come up one short. 

The hydraulics had stopped pumping, letting the stiff length retract back inside its protective sheath. Only the tip remained visible, but it was enough to see the tiny hole where fluid had gushed out. No dildo the team had ever built or used had a hole like it. That probably should have been their first clue that it didn’t work like a dildo, but they'd just gotten so _excited_.

They didn’t know what was right in front of them, and an unsaid _’Ohhhh’_ spread through the gestaltbond. The mystery didn't have to remain a mystery. This wasn't some half-destroyed mural glimpsed in the ruins of ancient Cybertron. This was a real life dildo...thing...in the middle of their repairbay. They could experiment further.

Lust and adventure called to the Constructicons.

To most of them, anyway. Scavenger had inched back from Breakdown during the unnerving period of Dead End actually looking happy. It had only lasted about 10 seconds before afterglow apparently lost out to existential despair, but that brief period unnerved Scavenger something fierce. He stared at Breakdown's stiff equipment with the apprehension of someone handed a ticking bomb. *Is that going to come out of him, too?* he asked on the team frequency. *Is it supposed to? What's it going to do to my valve? Will I absorb it? I don't even like sharing circulatory systems with you guys, and we're gestalt. Who knows what kind of slag's in that stuff?*

All very good questions. Mixmaster reared back, all but falling off the repair berth in his haste to get away. Legs spread wide, he waddle-shuffled toward the chemical shower in his lab. Hazardous material alarm! Safety first! His hands lifted up out of the danger zone, and Bonecrusher dove into the supply closet for a handful of rags to help clean him. 

Hook grabbed Dead End by the chin to keep his attention off the flurry of panicked activity. "You. Your…emission. Is it caustic? Infectious? Is it fuel?" 

Dead End shrugged, and the surgeon gave him a disgusted look for his ignorance. He _hated_ not knowing what was happening. The Constructicons felt his frustration as their own. 

But Scavenger’s fear of contamination acted as a team counterweight. Caution balanced interest well. 

Plus, spite was a powerful motivational force. If Scavenger was terrified of something, then Hook wanted to examine it closely just to prove **he** wasn’t. He abandoned Dead End, stepping around the repair berth to shoulder Scavenger aside and take over holding-down-skittish-Stunticon duty. Breakdown _’eep’_ ed at the change-off. Scavenger had been gingerly holding him down via fingertips on his chest; Hook seized him by the hips to hold him in place.

Leaning closer, the surgeon studied his erect equipment. Specifically, he examined the hole in the tip. A dildo that shot fluid was weird enough, but it severely rattled him that it could climax. Valves were packed with circuitry meant to register temperature, pressure, and charge. Maybe dildos were built compatible with a valve’s receptors, corresponding transmitters ready to line up once inserted. How sensitive did that make them, then? Were dildos basically inside-out valves?

Breakdown braced himself, hands clutching the sides of the repairberth. Hook glanced at him, taking in his shaking tension. It didn’t look like nerves. Well, not his usual nerves. Breakdown hovered one anxiety attack away from a nervous breakdown every day of his life, in Hook’s opinion, but this seemed to be a different kind of tension. This bordered on anticipation.

Frowning, Hook looked back to the dildo in his face, turning the evidence over in his mind. Breakdown was reacting how Hook expected someone with a mouth near their valve to react. If he connected conjecture with observation, that meant…hmmm.

Visor on the blindfolded mech, Hook carefully took a long, deliberate lick over the dildo’s tip.

"Nnngh!" Breakdown's engine whined hard, downshifting in a loud grind. Machines around the repairbay rattled as he arched up, hips thrusting toward the warm flick of a tongue. Fear took a backseat to purely physical pleasure. 

Dead End's head turned toward his gestaltmate. "He liked that," he said, mildly surprised.

Pleased he’d been right, Hook took another lick, this time dragging his tongue leisurely up the length of the dildo. He’d eaten out enough valve that he knew how to do _this_. Breakdown grunted, whimpering as his tongue flicked off the end. Sparks flew as the Stunticon’s engine caused malfunctions in the nearest machines. 

Hook’s armor rattled in time to the engine vibrations, but he ignored it to bring the taste back into his mouth to analyze. Metal, Earth-made polish of some sort, and the barest drop of that strange mystery fluid, just enough to smear on his tongue. It carried a startling amount of charge, so much that electricity crackled across his teeth. Hook blinked. For a moment, he held a mouthful of energy, and it baffled him. *Someone make a note. He’s generating far too much power.*

Long Haul had moved to get a better view of the show, and he cocked his head. *It must be for a reason.*

*Reason or not, I’m not sure it’s healthy.* 

*Did it hurt?* Scrapper asked immediately, but Hook licked his lips and shook his head.

*No. It...is well within the specs of our valves. If Dead End leaked this way while Mixmaster rode him, no wonder it felt so good.” It didn’t taste like lubricant, but it was slick, wet, and conducted electricity so well Hook’s own valve clenched in on itself in aching _want_.

*What if it’s only supposed to go in valves?* Scavenger asked a little queasily. *It might be toxic.*

Mixmaster had stopped halfway into the chemical shower the moment Hook bent down. He’d been fixated by the sight. Licking a dildo wasn’t something anybody did normally unless they’d run out of regular lube. 

At Scavenger’s uneasy question, the chemist’s optics went hungry and a fraction mad. Bonecrusher caught up and made a grab for him, intent on wiping off the inside of his thighs, but Mixmaster abandoned safety protocols without a second thought. Hook had the right idea! Why do tests in a sterile, hands-off environment when they could have some fun with it?

Besides, analyzing unknown substances was _his_ specialty. It was part of the altmode, Scrapper swore. Mixmaster did his best work processing raw materials inside himself, and _Identify the Substance_ was the chemist’s favorite game. Playing it during interfacing just made it a kink. 

Mixmaster had one goal in mind: a fresh sample inside him.

Hook saw him coming and glared, digging his fingertips into Breakdown's hips. "Mine." Breakdown made a tiny noise, not certain he was into the rough stuff but dildo liking it a great deal if the bead of liquid welling from the tip meant anything.

Mixmaster nodded to it. "Might be toxic."

Hook lowered his helm to study the bead as it broke, dripping at a slow ooze down the Stunticon’s stiff length. "The probability of it being so is extremely low."

"You don't have the oral sensors to analyze it."

"You don't have the processor power to make a difference."

"Ohhhhhh frag," Bonecrusher and Long Haul chorused, leaning back out of the battleground. 

*You’re breaking the rules,* Scavenger added over the team channel. *No mean-‘facing.*

Mixmaster and Hook made faces at their teammate, but mostly as an excuse not to look at Scrapper. Guilt lurked in the gestaltbond. Scrapper had made that rule a long time ago, and he upheld it sternly. Otherwise his team would fight over their current clang like Sharkicons over the last food scrap. Sharing a mech took cooperation, slaggit.

Scrapper’s heavyduty engine growled disapproval, but he didn’t have time to say anything before Dead End sighed. He sighed as though the weight of the world were upon his shoulders, flattening him into a pancake of shiny armor and apathy. He sighed as though Optimus Prime had run over his favorite gestaltmate, backed up to do it again, and then shot him while driving away. He sighed as though he'd expected his death to be undignified and inglorious, with an extra dollop of doom, gloom, and inevitable defeat at the last moment on top.

"Will you please do something about him," Scrapper said to Mixmaster, exasperated.

"Breakdown," Dead End said after he'd finally run out of depressive vibes to sigh out at the rest of them, "they're arguing about who gets to do that thing Motormaster made Drag Strip do."

"That? To m-me?" Breakdown said. His engine rattled everyone's joints. None of the Constructicons had considered it terribly erotic twenty minutes ago. Aroused as they were, their collective libido did a dance around a pole in time to the pounding vibration. His hands twitched toward the blindfold, but Mixmaster was on it. The chemist pressed his hands back down, and the Stunticon froze. "I, um."

"Wait, Drag Strip's done this?" Hook looked down at the erection under his chin. "Well then! It can't be toxic." He smiled sweetly at Mixmaster. "Mine."

Dead End turned his head stare at him. "He didn’t swallow it. I don’t know what it will do in a fuel tank.” He refused to look at the mess covering his own lap. “It clogged his filter. If Motormaster hadn’t pulled out, Drag Strip would have likely drowned."

The Constructicons looked at the fluid. It did seem thick compared to normal fuel. Putting the stuff in their mouths suddenly sounded risky.

Hook drew back the slightest bit, which was enough surrendered ground for Mixmaster to take control. The chemist pushed him away, claiming Breakdown as his territory. Yes! Excellent. All his, now.

"Don't swallow," Hook warned his gestaltmate as he took over holding the Stunticon’s hands down. He was no good at comfort, but he did lean down to say, "Shhh, settle down. You’ll be fine. He's good with his mouth."

Mixmaster’s loud, unhinged cackling didn't calm Breakdown any. "Does he even know what to do?!" he yelped. A touch of hysteria entered his voice. " **I** don't know what to do! This wasn't in the instructions!"

Hook shrugged as everyone looked at him. The Hook School of Sex Ed had a distinct lack of information to distribute when it came to anything other than a valve. They were making this up at they went.

Speaking of which. *How do we get feedback on technique?* Scrapper asked as Mixmaster distracted Breakdown handily -- by actually using his hands. Breakdown was far less interested in panicking with two hands working him over. 

Mixmaster figured out the best rhythm as he went, wrists jerking to turn his hands in twisting pulls. He squeezed tentatively at first, then more firmly when Breakdown revved, bucking into his tight grip. Then Mixmaster gave Hook a wicked smirk and bent down, mouth opening.

“He **really** liked that,” Dead End said as if they couldn’t see Breakdown writhing against Hook’s hold, hips surging up to meet the tongue lapping his tip. 

*We could just ask him,* Hook said dryly, tilting his head toward Dead End. 

*The gestalt is not a reliable barometer of each individual,* Scrapper said back just as dryly, and the other Constructicons nodded in long-suffering agreement. Amen to that. *We need honest answers. Are hands better than mouths? Do they overload better in a valve or outside of one?*

*"Maybe they can fill out a form afterward,"* Bonecrusher suggested, only half-joking. *"On a scale from 1 to 10, how much did you like fragging Mixmaster's hands? Compare that to his mouth. Please write an essay explaining which got you off better, and why."*

Hook glared at him. *That's hardly objective.*

Mixmaster closed his mouth over Breakdown’s tip, deciding to try sucking instead of licking. Breakdown threw his head back and screeched, jolting up off the table as he overloaded. Mixmaster choked, shocked as highly charged fluid spurted at speed into the back of his throat. Optics wide and mouth full, he flailed, falling backward, and Breakdown’s engine kicked into gear, going from a rattle to roaring thunder.

The nearest machines sprayed sparks as they spontaneously dissembled. Those machines included Cybertronians. 

The Constructicons’ knee joints unlocked, collapsing under them, and Dead End peered over the edge of his repairberth as the whole team went sprawling.

*...not very objective, but I think he enjoyed that.*

Through the static of malfunctioning audios, Scrapper thought he heard Primus laughing at them.

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
